The fate of warriors
by Crutchwork
Summary: 'Please, I-'It is as far as you get before he kicks you in the ribs, knocking over your frail body. A short story on the reality of the soldier. dedicated to anyone who ever praised war or thought a side was right and just.


With baited breath you wait like a wolf in the night. You could feel the heat of battle rising. You sweat under the mail and fur padding. You bite hard on your lip. You lick the warm blood away, tasting metal. All around you men (most in their late teens) are crouched in the brush watching the roads as you did.

In the distance, horses whinnied, hooves clattered on stony ground, armour rattled, men marched. They did not know they were about to die. You feel strong and powerful. You were about to take their lives. You clench the mace in your hand. Your heavy equipment strains your arms. The cramps make you impatient and irritated.

'Alright Lads.' Whispers Donail. 'This is it. If we die, we die men.'

Silence falls. Bats chatter and the wind shakes the brush. The sounds of the approaching soldiers are louder. You feel suddenly frightened. But you deny it. It's impossible. You have thought all of this through before. You have made your decision. Your stomach sloshes, your hands shake.

"If we die, we die men." You tell yourself.

"If we die, we die men." You can see the soldiers now. Heavy armour, some with horses, thin blades, strong, confident faces.

"If we die, we die men." Your stomach twists. You fear you may shit yourself.

"If we die, we die men." Your grip tightens on your equipment. Your nails bite into your palm. Why won't your hands stop shaking?

"If we die, we die men." The soldiers are there now. Should you run and attack? You look around and see the others. They are hesitant, inching forward gingerly. The soldiers are passing.

Strength builds in your chest. You banish the fear. You rise up, head held high.

'If we die, we die men!' You roar, the words hurting your throat.

The others bellow fiercely, beating their shields. They cascade downhill. You are caught up in the rush. You feel like a warrior. Your legs seem to work of their own accord, racing down the slope.

You see the soldiers scramble to raise their shields and calm the horses. A rock is thrown. It strikes a soldier's head with a loud twang. He falls off his horse. You and the others shout out in triumph. Metal scrapes against metal. Bones crunch and men scream. You race forward towards the skirmish. You leap forward, thumping your mace into a shoulder. The man thrashes out in blind rage, missing you. You go in for another. You strike his shield again and again. He pants. He is about to break. You can feel it. You strike from above, down on his head. Metal scrunches, digging into skin. His helmet is smashed. He falls to the ground. You feel the pleasure of victory. You kick him on the ground and batter your shield.

A boy falls in front of you. All the screams and clattering of weapons are blocked out for a moment. He is not wearing a helmet. Blood spurts from his squashed nose. His life fluid pours from his side. He gasps, choking. You watch as the light leaves his eyes. He looked no older than you. All of the strength and the rush drain from you. You feel pale. Reality sets in. This could have been you.

Someone screams at you. You turn to see a lumbering bear of a man raise an axe. You raise your shield as fast as possible. The impact knocks onto your back. He raises the axe again, madness in his eyes. A sword pierces his side. He is taken down by two of your comrades. You stay paralyzed. Not ready to get up. The battle was over as quickly as it had begun. You had survived. You are a warrior now.

# # #

In the cold streets, you listen to Reila argue with a shopkeeper over the price of a basket of strawberries. What would you do for a strawberry? Juicy, soft and sweet. You huddle closer into your blankets. They stink of wet dog. People avoid looking at you as they passed by. You stare though. Mostly at their clothes. Soft and comfortable. Your cloak was stained and scratchy. You had nowhere to wash them.

A passer-by drops a few coins into your plate. You look up and make your best effort to smile. She looks at you briefly then walks on. She was pretty. Her lips were full and her skin fair. You watch after her, your eyes scanning all over her body. You look away in shame. Your hand reaches up to your face. You trace the scars on your cheeks and the lumps on your brow. Your fingers dig into your gristled beard.

You sigh angrily. This is what war had done to you. It had taken everything. You look up to the cloudy sky. Memories of pain and great bloodshed burden your mind. It had aged you beyond your years.

'Get up and move you lazy oaf.' An angry shopkeeper growls. 'Your blocking the road and scaring away business with that gods awful stench.'

'Please, I-'It is as far as you get before he kicks you in the ribs, knocking over your frail body.

'Get out of here you piece of trash before I call the guards.'

You get up and gather your blankets and plate. You limp feebly away, unsure of where to go.

Trash. That's what he called you. After fighting and risking your life for the rebellion. All you are is trash. They said you were a true nord. You were fighting the good fight. It was for freedom, liberty and justice. It was for the old ways and the ancestors.

You kick aside a stone. There is no such thing as a good fight. You had watched as your friends died in agony, hatred carved into their faces. You were sent to deliver the red letters. The note every wife and child dreaded. You had to bear their pain and reassure them as best you could.

You hobble towards the inn. Inside there is great warmth from a ferocious fire in the middle of the room. Surrounding this fire are nobles and commoners alike. A pair of lovers sit in the far corner huddled close, taking turns to whisper honeyed words. Thieves sit at a table near the back. They argue over a piece of jewellery, occasionally smacking the table to emphasise their point. Old men sit at a table next to the thieves. They are telling stories and swapping gossip.

You place your coins on the bar tender's counter. He is a tall lanky man with cold pinched cheeks and a set of yellow teeth.

'Ah, now. The usual mead?' Arren smiles.

You think for a while. It must have been long because then he says.

'You okay?'

'I-I am fine. My mind is just elsewhere.'

He nods. 'Maybe this cold is getting to you.'

'I was kicked over by Eirineor earlier maybe it was that.' You mumble.

'What? Come now. You can't let the wee cur do that to you. Let me settle this.'

You raise your hands. 'No, no please don't make a fuss. It doesn't matter.'

'Of course it matters. He can't just push around people like that. Namely you. You're a war hero.'

You grimace. 'No I'm not a hero.'

'Enough. I'm not going to have this conversation with you.' He says, giving up. 'Black-briar or honeyside?'

'Neither. I'll have some dragon brandy.'

'That's some strong stuff. Why the change in tastes?'

You shrug. 'Today feels…different.'

'Fair enough. If you want I can heat it for you.'

'No thanks. Just give it here.'

He ducks down and you hear bottles banging against each other. He re-emerges with a stout brown bottle.

'Say, how about you entertain some of my patrons with one of your war stories?'

You shake your head. 'Sorry.'

'Ach, come on now, just one story. I'll even pay you.'

'No.'

'Fair enough. One of these days you're going to have to open up around here.'

You look around. 'They don't care.' You mutter bitterly.

'Well….they would love to hear anyway.' Arren reassures.

'Arren?' You say.

'Mmm?'

'Thanks. For letting me in all these years.'

He laughs. 'Why wouldn't I?'

You shrug. 'The smell.'

He laughs harder now.

'Goodbye.'

'Yeah. Seeya again later.'

You nod as you head out the door.

At the black smith's there is great noise as a new blade is forged. You watch as the white hot metal is hammered into shape, sparks whiz into the air. A young man stands chatting to the black smith as she works. He is a solider. He looks new. He was like you. He is going to make a terrible mistake. That must be his new blade being forged. He was going to enlist. You hobble over to him and grab his tunic.

'You better not fight. Listen, don't get caught up in this. It's not-'

His hand is brought down onto your face. Slapping you to one side. He stalks away, muttering something about mad men.

'I'll return for the sword later. He calls.'

You shiver. The blacksmith doesn't look at you. There is a small steel knife on the working bench next to you. You grab it and stuff it under your blankets. You shuffle away before anyone notices.

Now you are kneeling by a leaf choked pond. Beside you is the brandy and the knife. You look up to the sky and whisper to the gods. Just one sign. That's all you ask. One sign that they at least watch over you. But there is nothing but the crowing of jackdaws and lull of freezing wind. Did they even exist? Were they just stories? What about Talos. He was the great founder of the empire and the greatest nord who ever lived. If he wasn't real then what was the point of the war. Who really benefited from the war? Nobles? Rich supporters? The jarls? Definitely not the men who fought and died for the cause. Oh no, dread the thought of them even getting anything from that bloody war. You curse the world and spit into the pond. Revolutions bring little change for the common man. You have learnt that the hard way. If this is what the world is. How can there be loving gods?

You raise the brandy to your lips and drink thirstily. The liquid burns down your throat, roasting in your stomach. You slowly become drunk. Your head spins and you mutter slurred words. You breathe deeply. The brandy is gone. Soon reality will return with a vengeance. But you don't care about the headaches or the cramps. It's just living that's the problem. Maybe you should have died on the battle field. You would have been deluded into thinking you were a brave hero and that sovengaurde awaited. Maybe there is an afterlife. Then again life is cruel, why should the next life differ? Nevertheless no harm in trying. With shaky hands you take the knife and press it against your wrist. You don't even think. You just do it. You groan as you faintly register the dulled pain. The blood streams out. You feel light headed and you plunge your wrist into the icy water. It turns crimson. Your eyesight fades. The world swims. You die. You die a man no less.


End file.
